Sharpe’s Siege: The Winter Campaign, 1814. Bernard Cornwell
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diagonally towards the sea they must climb a crumbling bank of sand that was six feet high and steep enough to demand the help of hands if it was to be negotiated.
Twenty men went back for the gun limbers, while the rest of Killick’s men prepared the big guns for battle. The barrels had to be shifted on the carriages from their travelling position into the fighting stance, then trunnions must be clamped with iron capsquares as powder and grapeshot were rammed into cold muzzles. The grapeshot was adapted from the stocks taken from the Thuella’s magazine, and each canvas-wrapped bundle of balls would be propelled by four pounds and four ounces of French powder that came in a serge bag shaped to the cannon’s breech. Vent-prickers slid into touch-holes to break the powder bags, then tin tubes filled with finely mealed powder were rammed down to carry the fire to the charge.
Killick stooped at the breech of one gun. He squinted through the tangent sights, set for point blank range, then gave the brass handle of the elevating screw a quarter turn. Satisfied, he went to each of the other guns and stared down the sights to imagine the tangling death he would cause to flicker above the clearing’s sand. The guns’ mute promise of terrible power gave Killick a welcome surge of confidence.
‘The Commandant thanks you, Cornelius.’ Lieutenant Liam Docherty had warned Commandant Lassan that the British had landed. ‘He wishes you joy of the meeting.’
Killick gave his swooping, bellowing laugh as if in anticipation of victory. ‘They’ll not be here for six hours yet, Liam,’ he paused to light a cigar, ‘but we’ll kill the sons of devils when they do come, eh?’
‘We will indeed.’ For Liam Docherty the coming battle would be one tiny shard of the vengeance he took on the British for their savagery in suppressing the rebellion of the United Irishmen. Docherty’s father had been hanged as a rebel in Ireland, casually strung up beside a peat-dark stream with as little ceremony as might attend the death of a rabid dog, and the boy’s mother, rearing him in America, would not let him forget. Nor did Liam Docherty wish to forget. He imagined the redcoats coming into the clearing and he relished the savage surprise that would be unleashed from the six gun barrels.
Some villagers, made curious by the strange happenings to the south, had come into the trees to watch the Americans prepare. Cornelius Killick welcomed them. In the night he had been besieged by fears, by imaginings of disaster, but now, when the shape of the enemy’s approach was plain and the skilful placing of his ambush apparent, he felt sure of success and was glad that this victory would be witnessed by spectators. ‘I wonder what they’d say in Marblehead if they could see us now,’ he said happily to Docherty.
Liam Docherty thought that few people in Marblehead would be astonished by this new adventure of Killick’s. Cornelius Killick had always had the reputation of being a reckless rogue. ‘Maybe they’ll name a street after you.’
‘A street? Why not rename the bloody town?’
Only one thing remained to be done, and that was done with a due solemnity. Cornelius Killick unfurled the great ensign that he had fetched from the Thuella. Its stars and stripes had been sewn together by a committee of Marblehead ladies, then blessed by a Presbyterian Minister who had prayed that the flag would see much slaughter of the Republic’s enemies. This day, Killick promised himself, it would. The flag, drooping in the windless space beneath the trees, would be carried forward at the first gunshot and it would stand proud as the gunners worked and as the enemy fell.
Cornelius Killick and the men of the Thuella were ready.
The beach was strangely deserted when the Marines were gone. The wind was cold as Sharpe’s men tumbled uncertainly through the surf to drag their packs, greatcoats and weapons to the dunes.
‘One more boat, sir,’ Frederickson said unnecessarily.
Sharpe grunted. The clouds had hidden the sun again and he could see little inland through his telescope. On one far hill a track seemed to wind uncertainly upwards, but there was no visible village or church that might correspond to the scanty map that Frederickson spread on the sand. ‘The captain said we were three miles south of Point Arcachon, here.’
Sharpe knew the map by heart and did not bother to glance down. ‘There are no roads eastwards. Our quickest route is up to Arcachon then use the Bordeaux road.’
‘Follow the web-foots on the beach?’
‘Christ, no.’ Sharpe did not care if he never saw Bampfylde again. ‘We’ll take the inland road.’ He turned. The Comte de Maquerre was standing disconsolate by the tideline watching as his two horses, each given a long lead rope, were unceremoniously dumped overboard. The horses would have to swim now, tethered to the Amelie’s boat, and the Count feared for their loss.
Frederickson still stared at the map. ‘How are you going to stop Bampfylde invading France?’
‘By refusing to believe that prinked-up bastard.’ Sharpe nodded towards the Frenchman. ‘I should have heaved him overboard last night.’
‘I could have an accident with a rifle?’ Frederickson offered helpfully.
It was a cheerful thought for a cold morning, but Sharpe shook his head before turning to watch a working party of Riflemen wrestling supplies through the surf. ‘We can jettison the bloody ladders,’ Sharpe said sourly. He wondered how Bampfylde proposed crossing the ditches and walls of the Teste de Buch without scaling-ladders, then dismissed the problem as irrelevant now. Sharpe’s job now was to go inland, ambush a military convoy on the great road that led southwards, and try to discover the mood of Bordeaux from the captives he would take. ‘We’ll split the supplies between the men. What we can’t carry, we leave.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Frederickson folded the map and pushed it into his pouch. ‘You’ll leave the order of march to me?’
But Sharpe did not reply. He was staring at a group of seated Riflemen who sheltered from the icy wind in a fold of the sand-dunes. ‘You!’ he bellowed, ‘come here!’
The Riflemen’s faces, bland with the innocence that always greeted an officer’s anger, turned to stare at Sharpe, but one man stood, shook sand from his green jacket, and started towards the two officers. ‘Did you know?’ Sharpe turned furiously on Frederickson.
‘No,’ Frederickson lied.
Sharpe looked towards the man he had summoned. ‘You stupid bloody fool!’
‘Sir.’
‘Jesus Christ! I make you a bloody RSM and what do you do? You throw it away!’
Patrick Harper’s cheek was even more swollen from the toothache and, as though it explained all, he touched the swelling. ‘It was this, sir.’
The reply took the wind from Sharpe’s anger. He stared at the huge Irishman who gave him a lopsided grin in return. ‘Your tooth?’ Sharpe asked menacingly.
‘I went to the surgeon to have the tooth pulled, so I did, sir, and he gives me some rum against the pain, so he does, sir, and I think I must have taken a drop too much, sir, and the next thing I know is I’m on a ship, sir, and the bastard still hasn’t touched the tooth, nor has he, sir, and the only explanation I can possibly think of, sir, is that in my legally inebriated condition some kind soul presumed I was one of Captain Frederickson’s men and put me on to the Amelie.’ Harper paused in his fluent, practised lie. ‘It was the very last thing I wanted, sir. Honest!’
‘You lying bastard,’ Sharpe said.
‘Maybe, sir, but it’s the truth so help me God.’ Patrick Harper, delighted with both his exploit and explanation, grinned at his officer. The grin spoke the real truth; that the two of them always fought together and Harper was determined that it should stay that way. The grin also implied that Major Richard Sharpe would somehow avert the righteous wrath of the Army from Harper’s innocent head.
‘So your tooth still isn’t pulled?’ Sharpe asked.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Then